


Pour Your Sweetness Over Me

by FoxglovePrincess



Series: Poor, Sweet, Innocent Thing [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Cute to Creepy, Dark, F/M, Manipulation, Multi, Named Reader, Nicknames, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25528828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxglovePrincess/pseuds/FoxglovePrincess
Summary: Sugar (Reader) goes to the same café everyday to work on her writing. Her best friends, Steve and Bucky, own the café and watch over her—but is that all they do?*written in first person and Reader is given the name Sugar (which is a nickname), other pet names used as well (sweetheart, babygirl, girl). limited description of reader/narrator appearance, reader uses female pronouns.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Reader, Sam Wilson & Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Series: Poor, Sweet, Innocent Thing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934077
Comments: 50
Kudos: 345





	Pour Your Sweetness Over Me

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: manipulation, kidnapping, dubious consent(no smut)
> 
> Well, this is weird—two stories within two weeks. Don’t get used to it, but I’m really happy I got these two done! Also, this is another long one, folks!
> 
> This is story is something new for me, trying to make a darker story while also being subtle about it and building up the creep factor. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. Your media consumption is your responsibility. Story inspiration came from a lot of Cafe AUs and Dark Fics, but A Taste for Life by The_Sad_Hatter is one of my favorites cafe stories (check it out, it’s really fluffy and soft and cute and nothing like this story, go show it some love). I want to give credit where it is due, since that story set me on the course of writing this one (and gave me ideas about the reader’s job(s)) despite this story being very different from that one.
> 
> Tell what you think in the comments. If I’m missing any tags, let me know (I tried to get everything, but no one’s perfect).
> 
> UnBeta’d, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title taken from “Sugar, Sugar” by The Archies.
> 
> This work is not to be reposted on any other site without my explicit permission.

The smells of cinnamon sugar and coffee swirl around the air as keys click on computers and newspaper pages turn. The sun shines through the windows and bathes the café in the soft rays of morning light. A few tables remain empty, but will soon fill with people looking for a relaxing atmosphere to enjoy their coffee and baked goods.

The line already reaches the door as customers line up for their caffeine fix—ever since they were featured in the local newspapers, their clientele has expanded drastically. But The Line Café remains homey, quaint, an escape from the bustling city outside, a time machine to the past with vintage flair covering every square inch of space.

“Here you go, one white chocolate mocha with hazelnut,” a voice says as my cup of coffee is placed on my table.

Warmth radiates from the cup and washes over my hand as I look up and smile at the man leaning over me to deliver my order.

“Thank you, Steve,” I say with a smile before turning back to my work.

“Anything for you, Sugar,” he replies. Heat blooms on my cheeks and my face flushes the perfect shade of tomato red. “By the way, Bucky’s trying out new palmier recipes and wants your opinion on the fillings. Don’t leave until you talk to him.”

“Of course,” I reply. My head bobs on my shoulders as I glimpse the tall frame standing up straight in my periphery.

Steve walks back behind the counter and morphs into a coffee making machine. His motions are fluid, mesmerizing as he brews drinks, heats milk, boils water, drizzles syrup. He’s so beautiful when he gets lost in his work—radiating light and warmth like the sun. Snapping myself out of my gawking, I turn back to my computer screen.

The blank page mocks me as I reread the brief for my newest assignment. Peggy really decided to challenge me with this week—10,000 words; sexual tension leading to a steamy romance; must include an ‘exotic’ location; strong, confident, sophisticated protagonist with a dashing, debonair love interest.

Normally, I could work with any prompt thrown my way. My imagination helped extensively with that. It was old hat to weave sexual tension and romance into my stories—second nature, as easy as breathing. I simply balked at the necessity of incorporating an exotic location—what did that even _mean_?—and a ‘confident’ female lead.

Now, I’m not saying I’m not strong and confident in my own way, but I simply enjoy softness, comfort, and avoiding confrontation. I’m happy with that—who I am and what I enjoy—but that is not what the brief is asking for.

I cringe internally as my mind drifts to my boss and the thought that I could categorically screw the pooch this week. She’s the type of woman who tramples over any man or woman who dare try to defy her will. She can stand against any adversary and come out on top. Just the thought of her disapproval or disappointment sends me spiraling into a vortex of doubt. My heart clenches.

“Girl, what’s that face for?” a voice calls from the table next to mine.

My hand reaches up to scrub over my face and banish the whirring thoughts blitzing my scattered mind. I gesture to my laptop as I take a sip of my coffee. Looking up, I see Sam stand from his seat and saunter over to sit opposite me.

“Come on, what’s the matter?” he asks.

“I just, ugh,” I groan, “They want me to write about some strong, sophisticated woman finding romance in an exotic location. How am I supposed to write that?”

“Well, I think the idea is to put one word after the other until you have a story,” Sam snorts. “You’re overthinking this. Write about Peggy. It’s not as hard as you’re making it out to be.”

“What if she hates it?” I ask with a whine coloring my tone.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Sam scoffs. “Use that imagination you’re always bragging about.”

I gaze, nonplussed, at him over the top of my screen. Sam leans forward onto the table, resting on muscular forearms and cocking his head to the side with an expectant smile. My eyes squint as I observe him. Inspiration strikes—dashing and debonair, eat your heart out.

Sam straightens in his seat, eyes twinkling, “There you go, you got this.”

I rest my fingers on the keys of my laptop and pause, “When you hear ‘exotic’, what do you think?”

“Make the setting a beach—any beach—but make sure there are cocktails and plenty of sunshine,” he replies standing from his seat.

“Thank you, Sam,” I gush as he walks back to his table.

He waves me off over his shoulder before sitting at his own computer, sipping his iced tea and starting back to work on his own story.

Sam started coming to the café to write about a year ago. He’s become a buddy, always finding a way to help when I’m stumped—often giving invaluable advice, or kicking me in the metaphorical pants. And when he can’t figure out the right details to build suspense or his characters won’t work with him, he turns to me. Quid pro quo.

I finally start writing. The story flows like a clogged pipe, stilted and exasperating. Each word pushed out after the next, slugging along until I can see the end and it starts to come easier as the tone becomes more and more climactic—the romance blooming on the page.

By the time I finish my coffee and the lunch hour rush dies down, a first draft stares back at me from my computer screen. Pulling up my email, I send the draft to Peggy and the editors for approval.

A sigh sits on my lips as I relax back in my chair. I close my laptop and tilt back my head, letting it rest on my shoulders and stretching the sore muscles. A reminder ping alerts me to my second job: proofreading a stack of articles by week’s end.

A groan rumbles in my throat. No way I’m starting on that until I take a break.

I pop up from my seat—stretching and shaking out my hands—and bounce over to the counter. Steve greets me with a smile and dismisses Pietro from the register to take my order.

“What do you want, Sugar?” he asks.

My body leans over the pressed copper of the countertop and a hum buzzes in my throat as I look at the display of baked goods. Steve waits patiently for me to choose my treat. I glance at him discreetly, seeing his smile unfaltering on his face, gaze focused on me.

“I can’t decide what I want,” I reply with the hint of a pout twisting my mouth.

My stomach growls in protest as hunger gnaws at me. A whine trills in my throat as I cover my abdomen with my hands, pushing on it to quiet the rumbling sound. A laugh bursts from Steve, muted as he attempts to cover the sound with a cough.

I huff a short laugh and point at a tray filled with cookies. “I do know that I want you to send over one of the double chocolate salted caramel cookies for Sam.”

Steve’s brow narrows and his smile slides away as he glances to the other author who’s been sitting in the café since this morning, “Why?”

“He helped me figure out something for my assignment this week.” I shrug. “He deserves at least a cookie as thanks, right?” The smile on my face doesn’t find itself mirrored on Steve’s as he just nods stiffly.

“Alright, one cookie.” He places it on one of their white plates and sends it with Pietro over to Sam.

An exclamation of praise echoes throughout the store. A few other patrons chuckle as Sam thanks me loudly over the quiet serenity of the café. I turn with a smile, ready to reply, when a strong hand lands on my shoulder. My eyes follow the hand up the arm to Steve’s face.

“Maybe you should go see Bucky now that you’ve got your draft finished,” he suggests with a tight smile.

“Oh!” I exclaim. Regret washes over me. “I almost forgot.” My hand reaches to rub my forehead, berating myself as I glance at the clock. “I hope he’s not upset that I’ve kept him waiting.”

“I’m not upset, Sugar.”

I turn and beam at Bucky as he peeks out of the kitchen. My feet nearly stumble over themselves as I rush to the door. Apologies spill out of my lips, but he simply smiles and chuckles before wrapping an arm around my shoulders and guiding me back into the kitchen. I glance back at my table to see Steve gathering my personal belongings and taking them behind the counter for safekeeping.

“Come on, you can try my new recipes,” Bucky says leading me toward his workbench.

We pass by some bustling kitchen staff, but for the most part, they leave us be. Wanda waves as she places some bread in the oven. May nods stoically as she simmers ingredients for another batch of today’s soup of the day.

A stool sits across from Bucky’s work area, covered with a pillow and waiting for me. I take a seat in the familiar chair and prop my face on my hands, leaning my elbows on the wooden butcher block island—the one place in the kitchen where people leave Bucky alone to do his thing.

My cheeks brighten with my smile as I see him gathering his new treats for me to judge. He dances around the kitchen, grabbing a plate and piling it with goodies that are a feast for the eyes. A bounce starts to jostle my body as excitement builds. Bucky chuckles and finally sets the plate in front of me.

“We have a few different types for you to try,” he says pointing to each one on the plate. “Cinnamon sugar, spiced chocolate, and cranberry orange are the sweet ones. Ham n’ cheese and blue cheese caramelized onion are the savory ones I’ve come up with so far.”

My mouth waters as I look at the decadent pastries. I reach out and start with the cinnamon sugar, working my way around the plate clockwise. Bucky has me rate each one on a scale from 1 to 5 for flavor and texture. Each one receives no lower than a 4.5 and Bucky’s delight grows with each bite.

I nibble my way to the last one—blue cheese and caramelized onion, the one I’ve been saving for last. My lips wrap around the baked good and the crisp layers of puff pastry practically melt in my mouth. I chew the bite, analyzing the flavor and texture—like instructed, and I am nothing if not thorough. The creaminess of the cheese hits my tongue along with the sweet compliment of the onion and then I pause.

“There’s bacon in this!” I exclaim with cheeks stuffed full of deliciousness, surprise overtaking my face.

Bucky claps once, a praise for finding his hidden flavor. He leans on the bench across from me, waiting for my evaluation, eyes sparkling. I take one more second of glee before schooling my features to a blank mask, furrowing my brows and taking another bite.

“What do you think?” he asks, shifting on his feet, impatiently waiting for my judgement.

I leave the silence to sit for another few moments. He fidgets with the countertop, wiping it down again before throwing his towel over to the dirty rag bucket. Allowing myself the time to see how much I can make him squirm, I take another bite and watch his face flicker with emotions—the shadow of impatience being first, but mild irritation and nervous concern come as close seconds.

Pushing my body away from the counter, I sit straight and breathe deeply. The palmier flakes as two fingers pinch it and hold it up toward the light—as if that would help me discern anything.

My eyes meet Bucky’s and I say, “These are terrible, Bucky, better give them all to me so I can dispose of them properly.”

Astonishment covers Bucky’s face before a smirk breaks over his lips, “Bullshit, you just want them all for yourself, you brat.”

A laugh bubbles out of my throat as I put an affronted hand over my heart. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing. I am _not_ a brat.”

Mirth dances in his eyes and I continue to giggle. Bucky looks pleased with himself as he cleans away my plate—but not before I stuff the last of the blue cheese palmier in my mouth because Yum!—and pulls out some tools to help him keep baking.

I watch him work for a while, distracted by the movements of his arms—muscles bunching and relaxing—and the sure way he handles every piece of food. The lights from above bounce off the planes and angles of his form—bewitching.

When his hands pause, I glance up at his face to see him smirking at me. My eyes snap to the door leading out to the café floor and clear my throat as a familiar heat spreads on my cheeks.

“Have you thought of one with a more savory herb blend, or using something like pesto? Pesto might be too oily for the puff pastry, but it might also turn out to be delicious,” I ramble as Bucky continues to knead dough and sprinkle flour.

He pauses in his work, the slapping sound made from his movements ceasing. He waits until I turn to catch his gaze before speaking, a soft smile on his lips, eyes full of affection.

“That’s a really good idea, Sugar. Thank you,” he replies.

Bucky continues to work his dough as we sit in a comfortable silence. Just watching him bake is like watching Monet paint—a master creating a work of art.

This isn’t strange for us, Bucky likes the silence, but also enjoys the company of someone to bounce new ideas off of—and sometimes he just wants to talk about crazy challenges from The Great British Bake-Off, which I’m fine with too. He has a team of bakers and chefs to help him, but, still, he often weaves his way to my table and insists I join him.

The door to the kitchen swings open and Steve saunters in with my bag slung over his arm. He pulls up another stool—sans cushion—and settles beside me.

“So,” he inquires, “how did taste testing go?”

Bucky leans over the counter to peck a kiss to Steve’s lips. They smile at each other for a moment—gorgeous, like a Renaissance painting—before turning their attention back to me. My eyes dart away—caught with my hand in the cookie jar, as it were.

“I’ve decided Bucky’s a genius and if you two weren’t already, I’d ask him to marry me,” I reply with a shrug—playing off my flustered energy with a quip.

Steve guffaws as Bucky pushes him, laughter bubbling in his chest as well. I look between them, admiring their easy joy. My heart pangs, wanting something like their love—someone to share my life with. But it fades into the background as I’m brought back to the moment from my thoughts.

“Any time, babygirl, you and me down at City Hall,” Bucky replies, his eyes beaming and tone playful. “Been meaning to leave this punk for years—you ever smell his socks after his morning run? Could peel paint. Don’t know why I put up with it.”

“You know what?” Steve retorts with a raised brow, eyes dancing with merriment. “At least I manage to get all of my dirty clothes in the hamper unlike some people, jerk.”

Their teasing squabble continues as Bucky leaves his dough to rest and prove. He makes his way around the counter until he’s beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and drawing me close like a teddy bear.

“You know what, I wanna divorce. I take custody of Sugar, and you can kiss my ass,” Bucky gibes with a smirk.

Steve makes a noise of complaint before grabbing my arms and pulling me from my seat to stand in his embrace, arms around my middle as I stand between his legs. I had long since dissolved into giggles, and tears of laughter glisten in my eyes—ready to act the rag doll in my friends’ game, basking in their high-spirits.

“Look what you did, you made her cry!” Steve exclaims, playing up my condition by pulling me closer and petting my hair.

Bucky tries to grab me back, but Steve keeps me secure in his arms. In the end, we stand wrapped in a group hug with me squashed in the middle and shaking from laughter.

I must admit, I’m enjoying myself—getting a moment just to be with them without the weight of running the café on their shoulders. They don’t normally play around during work, and I never see them outside of it.

“Come on, guys,” I manage to say between heaving breaths as the humor dies down. “I’m sure you can work it out. Besides, I’m old enough to decide who gets custody and I choose both of you. You’ll just have to learn to live with each other.”

Some matching, indiscernible expression crosses their faces before they snap back to the moment. Bucky breathes a put-upon sigh while Steve shrugs and releases me to sit back on my own stool. They exchange glances with each other before Steve kisses Bucky’s cheek and Bucky gets back to work pulling butter from the fridge.

“So, Steve,” I ask, reaching to pull out my laptop and once again start my work, as he turns his attention to me, “what brings you back here? I thought Bucky banned you from the kitchen?”

Steve chuckles. “Daisy, Jemma, and Leo all clocked in and they don’t need me to hover over them. I can’t head home right now, so I thought I would keep you two company.”

“Why can’t you go home?” I ask, curiosity piqued.

“We’re having some renovations done and I don’t want to be in the way of the construction crew.” Steve shifts in his chair, eyes darting to Bucky as he answers.

Bucky continues to work, shooting his husband glances as he cuts butter into flour, working the ingredients together. I dismiss the expression that keeps crossing their faces—one I can’t quite decipher—as I continue my inquiry.

“What kind of renovations?” I lean on the counter and stare at Steve, work completely abandoned for more interesting conversation.

His eyes once more glance to Bucky—is that the beginning of panic sparking in his eyes?—before he responds, “Just something we’ve been thinking about for a couple years. Refitting the basement and working on some of the rooms upstairs. Bucky’s getting some things done in the kitchen, too. It’s been going on for a while now, just chipping away at the list of things to do.”

“Sounds exciting,” I reply.

“We’ll have to show you when it’s all done,” Steve says, shifting once more in his seat. His hands clench into fists as he looks at me and clears his throat. “Maybe you could come over for dinner?”

A smile breaks over my face as I nod enthusiastically. I open my mouth to ask something more, but Bucky cuts off my thought.

“You sure are full of questions today, babygirl,” he says, voice a tinge lower than normal. “Maybe you should focus on your work. We don’t want you to fall behind.”

I huff an exasperated sigh and turn my attention back to my laptop—he’s right, of course. Time ticks by as Bucky keeps baking and Steve pulls out some paperwork—I assume for the café. We work in companionable silence, every once in a while chatting about small, insignificant matters.

As I close my laptop for the final time, having finished my first cursory revision of the articles I need to proofread, I glance at the clock.

“Time for me to head home, I guess,” I sigh. Packing up my bag goes quickly before I stand and stretch.

Bucky and Steve both see me off from the back door. I exit the alleyway as the sun sets on the horizon—plenty of time to get back to my apartment and fix myself something for dinner before it gets too dark. Rolling my shoulders I trek onward—dismissing the assumed feeling of eyes watching me as the paranoia of living in a big city—and find my way home.

*

My routine is the same every day. I walk to the café, order something to drink, and work on the assignments that pile up in my inbox. I take breaks, stretching sore muscles or eating lunch. Steve and Bucky chat with me when they take their breaks, sometimes sitting at my table and sharing drinks and treats. Sometimes Bucky pulls me back into the kitchen. Sometimes Sam asks for my help with his writing. But for the most part, I sit and work without interruption until the sun starts to set and I pack up my belongings to head home.

“Excuse me,” a female voice calls from above me.

Looking up from my screen, a pretty blonde woman stands to the side of my table with a sickly sweet smile plastered on her face. I point at myself with the pen in my hand, confused as to why she would be addressing me.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you,” she nods with a chuckle and gestures to the seat across from me.

As my head bobs in acceptance, she seats herself in front of me and sends a quick look to the counter. I follow her gaze as my hands close my laptop and see Steve standing at the espresso machine, steam billowing behind him. His eyes lock with mine, brows narrowed and expression just as confused as I feel.

“I’ve notice you come here everyday and I was wondering how well you know the owners,” she says drawing my attention back to the conversation.

I shrug, “Bucky and Steve are friends. I walked into their shop when I first moved here and they just kinda accepted me. Haven’t gone anywhere else since.”

“So you know a lot about them?” she presses. Her body leans on the table, coming closer as her voice drops.

“I suppose,” I reply slowly, suspicion blaring klaxons in my head.

Her head quirks as she observes me, eyes calculating and gaze penetrating. My instinct to flee pricks at the top of my spine, tingling and urging me to escape.

“You’re not related,” she murmurs. My head shakes slowly, answering her unasked question. “So are you dating one of them—fucking one of them? Is that why they treat you so damn special?” Her accusation hits me like a boulder to the chest and I’m left reeling.

“Uh, n-no,” I insist, croaking out the words. “They don’t—it isn’t—they’re _married_.” My head shakes as I refute her idea, heartbeat racing and agitated adrenaline gushing through my veins accompanied by shock.

My nervous eyes dart to the counter, looking for Steve. When his figure is nowhere to be seen, my shoulders relax minutely. He won’t have overheard what she said. I pull a deep breath into my lungs, trying to calm myself as I look to the woman sitting across from me, skepticism clear in her eyes.

“Could have fooled me,” she mutters with a shrug. “But whatever you say. Why do they save this table for you, though?”

“They don’t,” I reply. “It’s just usually empty when I arrive in the mornings—I get here early.”

Even as the words leave my lips, they feel inaccurate, forced—the bitterness of them sitting on my tongue even as they leave my mouth. I mean, I always sit at the same table— _always_ —even when the café is busy. But that doesn’t mean the owners reserve it for me without my knowledge, does it?

The woman shakes her head with a wry chuckle, stands, and crosses her arms. I shrink in my seat, away from her displeased sneer as my mind scrambles to think of what to say.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say you’re oblivious and spoiled,” she remarks with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“I think it’s time you stop harassing one of my customers.”

I jump in surprise and my stomach sinks in dread as Steve’s voice sounds from right behind my back. The urge to turn around and see his face overrides my better judgement. He stands behind me with a glare darkening his face, arms crossed and solid as a mountain.

“I think it would be best if you were to leave now, ma’am,” he continues.

Turning my gaze back to the woman, I see her floundering for something to say. Indignation shows prominently on her face—cheeks red and lips pursed. As she turns on her heel and weaves her way around the tables and out of the shop, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Steve’s hand lands on my shoulder, dependable and comforting. He crouches next to me, catching my eye as he looks up from his lowered position.

“Are you alright, Sugar?”

“She’s fine, man,” Sam comments from his table, work abandoned in lieu of the drama that just took place. “Sharon’s just pissed because your girl, here, gets special treatment. She’s been talking my ear off about it for a month. Started just after you rejected her last proposition for a date. Been working herself up to whatever that was since.”

“I wasn’t asking you, Sam,” Steve replies through gritted teeth. He looks back at me with a reassuring smile. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you back in the kitchen so you won’t be bothered again.”

My head bobs with a nod as I gather up my laptop and scattered papers. A peculiar kind of numbness coats my mind as it tries to process what just took place. Though I know what happened objectively, somehow I can’t comprehend _why_. I sling my bag over my shoulder, stepping beside Steve and letting him wrap an arm around my shoulder to guide me.

“What the hell just happened?” I voice looking over to Steve as he escorts me back to the kitchen. “I mean, seriously, what the fuck?!”

My brow furrows as the interaction replays over and over in my head. She had started pleasantly, but then turned profoundly accusatory—like the flip of a switch.

“Don’t worry about it, Sugar. She won’t bother you again,” Steve soothes.

But my blood still buzzes in my veins—leftover adrenaline just looking for an outlet. My surroundings are calm—everything is as it should be—but my energy is notched at full-throttle flight, mind spinning. It drains from me slowly with each step, but doesn’t fully fade. We push through the kitchen door and Bucky rushes over.

“What the hell happened out there?” he asks, pulling me closer to look over my face. “We heard a commotion through the door.”

I push him away, needing space and room to breath. A pained look of rejection crosses his features sending a pang of regret through my stomach, but the last thing I want to do is completely alienate the only friends I have because I suddenly can’t control the irritation boiling within me. 

“Sharon decided that since I don’t want anything to do with her, she’ll just attack my friends,” Steve replies, contempt biting into each syllable.

Both men stop their conversation to observe me. I pace back and forth trying to release the remaining tension, to stop the urge to rip into something or run out the back door. Steve shoots Bucky a look before the baker walks away and returns with a bowl covered with plastic wrap.

“Beat the shit outta this for me, would ya, Sugar?” He shoves the bowl into my arms and backs up a step.

My head nods, relief already calming the stress. I walk to Bucky’s workstation, wash my hands, and sprinkle flour over the surface. Knocking back and kneading dough presents a wonderful opportunity to release the negative emotions coiling within me. My fists punch and my nails scrape, but nothing happens that would be cause for regret.

Steve and Bucky stand with their heads together by the kitchen door, speaking hushed words to which I pay no attention. But Steve eventually backs out of the room, back to his place behind the coffee machines and I’m left alone with Bucky.

The muscles in my arms already ache as I continue to press and roll the dough with the palms of my hands. Even as the muscles burn, I keep working, a few tears gathering on my waterline and trailing down my cheeks.

Steady hands pull away the dough, working it into a smooth ball and plopping it back into its oiled glass bowl. I’m drawn into a warm embrace as my lungs release an easy sigh.

“There ya go, babygirl, all better.”

*

“Wait, that’s your real name?!” Sam exclaims as he catches a glimpse of my byline.

My eyes glance up from the screen of his computer as my brow arches in confusion. As I slowly gather what has surprised him, I turn back to the manuscript he has me troubleshooting.

I snort, “You seriously thought my real name was Sugar?”

“Girl, I don’t know, I thought it was like Candy or Ginger or Clementine. How am I supposed to know you have an actual name?” Sam studies me as I roll my eyes and continue scrolling through his story. “I mean, shit, everyone here calls you Sugar, what am I supposed to think?”

“Well, if you were curious, you could have just asked,” I reply, quickly fixing a typo in the story.

We sit in silence for a while as I finish reading. There’s a niggling feeling in the back of my mind about the plot. Something not quite right about it. I scroll through the pages of his word document, searching for something I can’t quite pinpoint. When I don’t find what I’m looking for, realization hits.

“You can’t have this big romantic kiss at the end,” I say gesturing to the words on the page. “You don’t build the relationship enough—I mean, your protagonist shows little to no interest in their romantic counterpart until the last page. I don’t buy that he’s been repressing his emotions that well for so long.”

“Well there’s a lot going on in the story, where do you suggest I put it, then?” Sam asks, grabbing back his laptop and staring at the words on his document.

“You don’t just splash a chunk of romance into the story like a Jackson Pollock, you have to weave it into the small facets of the narrative.” I shrug, scooting closer to see his screen and point out some places in his story. “Like in these instances, you lace in body language and small gestures—leave a breadcrumb trail of details and trust your readers to pick up on it.”

My body scoots back in my seat as I draw my own computer closer and begin typing away. I take a bite of the cookie sitting next to me and smile in delight of the small treat. I nom happily on the baked good and continue working. As the words start to blur together in the article I’m proofreading, I pause to glance at my surroundings.

The café isn’t quiet today—at all. Conversation buzzes around as way too many people sit at the full tables. A smile graces my lips as I silently congratulate Bucky and Steve for their popularity—and ignore the slight irritation from the noise. Sam sits across from me at my usual table, a concession for the crowd so that our presence doesn’t impede other patrons from their search for open seats.

“I suppose you’re right,” Sam says, breaking the quiet and pulling my attention back. “I’ll have to write all the romance over again, I guess.” He snaps his laptop closed and glances out the window, scowl marring his features. When he draws his attention back to me, I know the question he wants to ask before it even formulates on his tongue. “So, how’d you get the name Sugar anyway?”

“You want the whole story or SparkNotes?”

“Whole story,” he replies quickly and shifts in his seat to lean back and get more comfortable. My eyes roll at his antics.

“I didn’t grow up in the city, you know?” I begin. When Sam nods, I continue, “I moved here about 3 years ago and was having a really hard time adjusting. I was barely making it by—couldn’t sleep, didn’t have enough money to eat. I had to really look at my options for survival and what I was willing to do.”

My hands knead together on my lap and I glance at the counter and catch Steve’s eye. He smiles over at me, even when Daisy calls for his attention. I grin and then look away, calming my nerves and turning my attention back to my story.

I breathe deeply and continue, “And then, one rainy day, I was looking for shelter and stumbled my way in here.” A smile lights my face as I recall the day clearly, the relief I felt as I first saw the café. “It was magical, in a way, looking around this place for the first time. I thought I had stepped through a time portal or something. And this place was empty—like completely empty.” I take a sip of my drink and clear my throat. “Steve was behind the counter and asked what I wanted. I couldn’t afford one thing on their menu. And I just lost it—breaking down into tears, hardly able to breath but apologizing with every breath. It wasn’t pretty. I mean, even Bucky came out of the kitchen to see what the racket was about.”

I fidget in my seat and shift. A sigh brushes over my lips as I rub my forehead, reliving one of my lower points in life. Like a familiar, cozy blanket settling on my shoulders, I feel Steve’s gaze watching me—checking to make sure I’m alright.

“And they took one look at pathetic, little me crying on the floor and, I swear, they just decided to adopt me or something. Steve made me hot chocolate and Bucky brought me some fresh-baked bread with honey butter—and they are the best things I have ever tasted to this day.”

Sam’s head tilts, dubious in my assessment. His eyes dart to Steve—as if the man would be able to confirm or deny the facts of my story across the bustling café. I chuckle and wait for his eyes to turn back to me.

“It was the first thing I had eaten in two days, it tends to leave an impression,” I shrug in response. “And they just let me talk and vent and by the end of our conversation, they had set me up with an interview with Peggy.” A tear drips down my cheek and I wipe it away. “They saved me, so I baked them some brownies once I got my first paycheck and could afford the ingredients. Bucky said I was sweeter than sugar, and the sentiment just sorta stuck.”

“Just like that?” Sam asks skeptically.

I chuckle, shaking my head with a rueful smile, “Just like that. They supported me and made sure I had everything I needed to figure myself out, even after the interview, including the occasional free meal when things didn’t go to plan. I’ve almost paid them back for those with dollars dropped in their tip jars, though.” I shove the last bite of my cookie in my mouth. My shoulders shrug as I chew and swallow. “They decided to call me Sugar, and I let them—’s not like I hate the name or anything.”

Sam takes a bite of his cinnamon bun as he contemplates my story, chewing over the details like he chews over his food. He swallows and takes a sip of his drink.

“Well, that explains the whole,” he gestures behind me with a smirk spreading across his lips. “Protective, mercurial, older brother instinct thing that the two have with you.”

My head cocks to the side as I contemplate his statement, “I guess they can be…intense, but they’re two of my best friends.” My shoulders once more bob with a shrug, letting any judgment roll off. “They just have my best interests in mind.”

“If you say so,” he mutters with an amused smile spreading across his lips.

A hand lands on my shoulder and I turn. Bucky leans over me with a strained smile on his face. His fingers press into my skin as his body glides around the table, blocking my view of Sam’s side. Sam makes a noise of offense, but grumbles into his keyboard instead of saying anything.

“Sugar, I need your opinion on something, can you come on back?” Bucky asks with the most tempting puppy eyes I have seen in my entire life—stormy eyes softened with supplication and the slightest pout sitting on his plush lips.

My teeth worry my bottom lip as I contemplate my answer. Bucky leans on the table more, eyes flickering from me back to the counter where I know Steve, even now, keeps watch.

“If it’s alright with you, I just have to finish up with Sam,” I reply as Bucky sends a displeased glance over his shoulder toward the man in question. My hand reaches out and covers the one he placed on the table. My fingers tap his skin until his attention shifts back to me. “I’ll be back in maybe 15 minutes, tops?”

Bucky pulls his hand away from mine and knocks his knuckles on the tabletop. His eyes turn to lock in Steve’s direction. I glance back to see a stern look lining my other friend’s usually jovial features as he presses buttons on the coffee machines.

Before walking away, Bucky shoots a small, obligatory smile my way and says, “Sure thing, Sugar.”

Sam stares as Bucky walks away and I turn to face the man sitting at my table. As he watches the retreating figure with a furrowed brow, I observe him. His mouth opens, then closes.

“What?” I ask, a bit too sharply, wariness sparking up my spine.

Sam holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. I tilt my head and wait for him to speak. My arms cross before my chest as I shift in my seat.

“I swear, it’s nothing, just a question,” he replies. “Why does Bucky come to you for baking advice? Doesn’t he have his own staff to help him?”

“I like baking. And he likes someone to bounce ideas off of, outside of the people he pays.” I smirk as my previous defensiveness drains away. My eyes glance back at the display case of baked goods. “Who do you think gave Bucky his brownie recipe and helped perfect it?”

“You did that?” Sam asks following my gaze to the glass display full of beautiful, indulgent treats—which has Bucky’s famous brownies prominently displayed on top.

“I suggested he use coffee to help with the flavor of the brownies. It’s a well known trick in baking to boost the chocolate flavor. It started with my family recipe. He came up with the rest,” I admit.

“He got awards for those things,” Sam exclaims, his hand slightly slapping down on the table. “That does it.” Sam looks at me, a playful determination in his eyes. “Girl, you need to marry me.”

A cackle of laughter surprises me as it bursts out of my throat. My hand reaches up to cover my mouth as the hilarity of it rolls over me. Sam shakes his head.

“Now, that’s cold,” he faux sulks, suppressing his own chuckles.

“How about I just make you some cupcakes or something?” I offer as my laughter dies down. Sam’s resounding ‘yes, a thousand times, yes!’ causes another fit of giggles to erupt from me. “Anything else you need from me?” I gather my belongings into my bag and sling it over my shoulder.

“Nah, Sugar, go help your baking buddy.” Sam waves me off as I retreat from my table. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I smile and wave once before turning to the kitchen and rushing through the door. Bucky stands behind his butcher block island, waiting and checking his phone, a grimace present on his face. As the door closes behind me, he brightens, standing tall and smiling—shining like the sun.

“Babygirl,” he greets. “I got a huge dilemma and I need some new perspective on this.”

“You know I’m happy to help, Bucky,” I reply, walking over to his work station and setting my bag down by my feet. “What’s up?”

Bucky turns around and pulls out a tray covered with frosted cookies. My eyes widen at the sight of them as he sets the tray before me on the countertop. A tally begins in my head, counting 13 different cookies. I tilt my head, confused.

“I’ve been trying to figure out the best recipe for frosted sugar cookies to add to the menu, and I feel like I’m taste blind at this point.” His tone echoes with a quiet, frustrated desperation as he glares down at the cookies on the tray.

My head perks up at the task for which he needs my help. A wide smile bursts over my lips as I scramble to pull over my stool and grab a notebook and pen from my bag.

“I’ve done this!” I claim with excitement. My eyes gaze over each cookie, cataloging their identical appearance and numbering my paper 1 to 13, while I continue, “In college, my dorm mates and I went around to every bakery or whatever in the area and compared all of the chocolate chip cookies we could find. Granted, there were only 6, but it was a blind taste test and we were all able to come to a consensus on the best cookie in town.”

As I ramble, I split my paper so each number has a square of space to rate them and make notes as I go along. Bucky chuckles and pulls up a stool to sit beside me.

“What are the odds,” he comments quietly, a hint of humor in his tone. “And who had the best cookie?” he asks as he places a plate beside me.

“It was from a gas station, but they were made fresh daily.” I shoot up from my seat and scramble over to the door. “I need to ask Steve for lime water!” I call back over my shoulder.

The café is still busy as I burst out of the kitchen door. A few eyes turn in my direction and heat flames on my cheeks. I shift on my feet, embarrassed and uncomfortable, before walking to the back of the long line—keeping my head down to avoid judgmental gazes.

Bucky emerges from the back and huffs a chuckle. He walks over and pulls me from the line, dragging me behind the counter and placing me out of the way from the buzzing workers. Steve turns around, curious look on his face.

“We need lime water,” Bucky relays to his husband with a shrug.

Steve smiles and nods, calling someone to finish the drink he was working on and rummaging around for supplies. He hums a tune under his breath, brushing up against my arm as he works—cutting and juicing limes and wandering to the sink to get the water.

“Enjoy, Sugar,” he says handing over a small pitcher. “Can’t say I would drink it myself, but whatever you need.”

“It’s to cleanse the palate,” I mumble as my hands grab the plastic container from him.

Our fingers brush, and Steve grins, saying, “You sure are taking Bucky’s problem seriously.”

“I like to help.” I keep from looking at him, focused on not being in the way of the baristas around us trying to fill orders.

“I know, sweetheart.” Steve turns back to me after wiping his hands on a towel. “You have no idea how much I appreciate you helping out that jerk.”

A firm kiss plants itself on my cheek. My eyes snap to Steve as he leans back with a smirk. Bucky grabs my hand, tugging back my attention and leading me to the kitchen.

I clear my throat and set the pitcher next to my plate. Bucky hands me a cup and sits on his stool. My quiet ‘thank you’ is met with an easy ‘you’re welcome’. Pouring myself a glass, I take a sip and pull my notebook close. I shift on my seat a bit, feeling inexplicably uneasy now. My throat clears again and I grab the first cookie on the tray.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” I ask.

An indecipherable expression crosses Bucky’s face as he nods, something akin to a burning fire. My first bite of the cookie draws forth a small sound of pleasure in my throat. It rumbles there as I jot down notes and numbers—tasting the frosting and cookie separately, gauging the texture of the cookie, the ratio between frosting and cookie.

Bucky shifts in his chair to face my direction, hand resting across his thigh as he leans on the counter. He surveys me as I sample each one, taking mouthfuls of my water between each cookie. I’m humming happily and buzzing with ecstatic energy until I reach number 13—and the noise that bursts out of me when I taste it is nothing less than pornographic. Bucky’s eyes flash as he watches and waits for my opinion.

“Bucky, this is the best sugar cookie I’ve ever had, and sugar cookies are my favorite so I’ve had _many_ ,” I gush as I take another bite. “This is the winner, 4 billion out of ten, definitely would recommend. I want to marry this cookie.”

My cheeks bulge as I stuff them full. Bucky snorts and grabs a napkin to wipe the crumbs from around my face. Taking my notebook in my hands, I grip my page of notes and tear them out.

“You can have these, just for reference,” I say shoving the paper into his hands. “But never make me a sugar cookie again, unless it’s that one.”

Bucky smiles and flicks away one last crumb from my face, brushing his thumb across my cheek, saying, “You’re a lifesaver, doll.”

*

Steve stands at the counter, papers shuffling around and glaring at the chart sitting right in front of him. It’s a quiet day today, not many people at all in the café—Sam had a meeting with his publisher and probably hadn’t come in. Other people were probably put off by the torrential rain outside. I mean, even I was coming in late after an appointment with my doctor.

“Is everything alright, Steve?” I ask approaching him while trying to squeeze out moisture from the ends of my hair and picking up a paper that had fluttered to the floor.

“Sugar!” Steve exclaims as he stands up straight and gathers the scattered papers all together. “You’re here!”

The door to the kitchen opens, smacking the wall behind it with a bang. Bucky stands in the doorway with an aggravated scowl darkening his features.

“Where have you been all day?”

I turn back to Steve, whose lips flicker between a tight line and a smile. The irritably confounded look on his face makes me pause. My feet shift beneath me as I adjust my bag slung across my shoulder.

“I had an appointment with my doctor,” I reply looking at my feet and feeling downright chastened.

“You should have told us you wouldn’t be here,” Bucky grunts, his arms crossing over his chest as he leans against the doorframe.

“I didn’t know you were keeping tabs on me, _Dad_ ,” I snipe back, confused at my own scathing reaction.

Bucky’s shoulders tense and he exits, slamming the door back behind him. I sigh as instant regret washes over me. My heart sinks to my toes as I turn to Steve.

“I’m sorry, I should have mentioned it, but it slipped my mind until my reminder alarm popped up on my phone this morning,” I say, attempting to rub the stress out of my body through my forehead.

For a reason I can’t entirely explain, my eyes start watering with tears which spill down my cheeks. Steve’s body relaxes as he watches me.

“I really am sorry,” I sniff.

“We know, Sugar.” He pushes aside his papers and moves around behind the counter. “Go sit down, I’ll be right there.”

Steve presses buttons and warms ingredients. He disappears into the kitchen and emerges with a piece of bread, slathered with honey butter, on a plate. He brings it over with a steaming mug. Placing them both in front of me, he squeezes my shoulder in reassurance. I smile through my sniffles, with a coo born of sentimentality and a quiet ‘thank you’. He returns the smile and grabs his work from the counter, sitting across from me at my usual table.

My breathing relaxes as I calm down and sip at the warm hot chocolate—the best in the city, but only if it’s made by Steve. He keeps working across from me, his brow narrowing the more he stares at the spreadsheet in front of him.

Someone walks into the café, their order filled by Jemma behind the till. Someone else walks out a few moments later. My cheeks flush as I realize our confrontation took place in front of an audience—a small one, but an audience nevertheless. I look to Steve, who sits tense and unhappy before me.

“What’s wrong, Steve?” I inquire quietly, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible now that I’m acutely aware of the drama that unfolded between Bucky and I.

“I can’t figure out who I want to place in charge of the upcoming shifts and shipments.” He huffs a breath and reclines back in his chair, resting his head on his shoulders and looking up at the ceiling.

“Why wouldn’t you be in charge?” The question tumbles out as my curiosity gets the better of me, despite my current reluctance to pry.

“Bucky and I are doing something special to celebrate our anniversary—a staycation, of sorts,” Steve mutters, eyeing me through his periphery, eyes squinted and assessing. “We’ll be gone for a few weeks, maybe more, depending if things go to plan.”

My head tilts as I take a bite of my bread. The flavors burst on my tongue as I chew, trying to keep my mouth shut and not indulge my inquisitive nature. My chagrin melts away with each bite of bread and sip of hot chocolate.

“We have to wait until the renovations on our home are completed,” he continues without prompting, “but Tony’s almost got the new tech up and running. So it should be done by the end of the week.”

I swallow, and perk up with interest. “So your anniversary?”

“Is this weekend,” Steve answers promptly. My eyes widen at the closeness of the deadlines—it’s _Wednesday_ , that’s 2 more days. “Yeah, I know, we’re already cutting it close and I procrastinated.”

Steve rubs the back of his neck with one of his hands and turns back to his chart. My teeth chew over my bottom lip, struggling to find something to say. I glance around the café with its sparse occupation. When I turn back to Steve, he’s observing me. My body freezes for a moment, puzzled why his attention remains so focused.

“We invited you over for dinner, once the renovations were done,” Steve states. He huffs a humorless laugh, eyes still centered on me. “You’ll just have to come over for dinner this Saturday and take a tour.”

I swallow a sip of my drink, a bit baffled, “But your anniversary?”

“You won’t intrude, sweetheart,” Steve answers with a soft smile. “Like I said, we’ll have plenty of time to celebrate in the coming weeks.”

I nod in acceptance and turn back to my cup. The mug warms my hands as we sit in silence. My hand tugs my phone out of my pocket to place a reminder in my calendar. Steve nods in approval and turns back to his work.

A troubling concern pings in the back of my mind.

Standing from my seat with a muttered ‘be right back’, I weave my way between the tables toward the back of the shop. Steve’s gaze remains heavy on my back until I push my way through the kitchen door.

Bucky works at his station, cutting out cookies and placing them on a tray. Wanda buzzes around the kitchen, mostly cleaning up messes and setting up her station for tomorrow. She sends a small smile my way once she notices me. I wave in response.

My feet drag over the floor as I shuffle over to stand beside Bucky. His shoulders are tense, every movement mechanical and stiff—not like the usual grace and fluidity that he exudes when he bakes. It hits me how much I hate having either of them upset with me—my body deflating from the better mood Steve had managed to coax out at the table.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper without the courage to look at his face.

Bucky sighs and stops working. “I know.”

His arm moves to wrap around my shoulder, pulling me into his side and pressing us close together. His lips brush across my forehead before he releases me. My hands cling to his shirt, unwilling to part from him until he forgives me.

“It’s okay, babygirl,” he mumbles. “I’m not mad anymore.”

Relief pulses through me and I release him. I shuffle back a step, but don’t leave the kitchen. Bucky finishes cutting out the cookies, preparing them on the tray and placing them in the oven to bake. He turns and leans against the opposite kitchen counter, eyes boring into me.

“We were really worried today,” he explains. His arms cross over his chest as a shadow overtakes his face.

My eyes drop to my shoes along with my heart. I shuffle back and forth like a chastised child, biting my lip and sniffing back tears. My arms wrap around my middle, trying to comfort myself with a hug—it doesn’t work.

“You can’t do that to us again,” Bucky continues. “You remember how it was before we helped you, how desperate you were.” I nod, my teeth biting my lip so hard it splits under the pressure. “Steve and I—we don’t want you in that position ever again. We thought something terrible had happened to you, Sugar.”

He pushes away from the counter and wraps me in his arms. His hand cups my cheek and levels my gaze to meet his. His fingers brush against my face, wiping away tears and swiping away the blood pooling on my bottom lip.

“You’re coming to dinner on Saturday? Stevie asked you?” he inquires.

“Y-yes,” I reply with a stuttered breath. I inhale deeply and hold it for a second until I can breathe easier.

“Good.”

Bucky nods and releases me, skirting around my body to his butcher block. I turn with him and he holds out a frosted sugar cookie. A small laugh huffs past my lips as I take it from his hand with a quiet ‘thank you’. He pets my hair with an affectionate smile and turns back to his task.

*

Standing outside a large brownstone in Brooklyn, I stare at the doorbell—nervous but buzzing with excitement. Trembling fingers reach out and press the bell, then bury themselves to twist into the material of my skirt. I step back until I stand on the edge of their stoop, rocking on my heels as I wait.

The latch clicks open as shuffling sounds from beyond the door. My eyes look up as Steve’s sunny smile greets me. A mirroring smile beams from my lips as I take a step closer.

“You came,” he breathes like a sigh of relief.

“Of course,” I reply and step inside as he gestures me to enter. “Free food and friendly company—couldn’t pay me to miss it.”

Their home exudes a cozy warmth with mellow lighting. Steve takes my coat and my bag, stashing them in the entry closet for later.

I take the opportunity to examine my surroundings—peeking at the décor and style of their home for clues about their lives outside of the café. 

The kitchen shines like a beacon at the end of a tunnel, down at the end of a long entryway with doors branching off to various other rooms. Steve guides me to the light, a firm hand on the small of my back.

My eyes keep moving, finding details that catch my eye—the glimpse of a gramophone in the living room, the vintage light fixtures hanging in the hallway, the fluffy blankets flung over the back of the couch, a framed sketch of the Brooklyn Bridge hanging on the wall. A strange sort of delight hits me when I realize their home and café complement each other so nicely. Yet, at the same time, it doesn’t surprise me, not one bit.

“Your home is lovely, Steve,” I remark as we pass by the doorway to their formal dining room.

Pride swells his chest as he thanks me, practically preening at the compliment. His eyes sparkle in the cozy light and my breath catches in my throat. I avert my gaze and keep my focus on the brightness of the kitchen.

“Sugar, you’ve made it.” Bucky wipes his hands on a towel and walks to greet me with a hug.

He pulls me close to his body, almost crushing my front to his and notching his head over my shoulder. He draws back, exchanging a glance with Steve, eyes flashing and darkening.

“We are so excited to finally have you over,” Bucky says. “Dinner’s almost served. Why don’t you go and let Steve get you a drink, we’ll be eating in the breakfast nook.”

He gestures behind me to the small, circular table sitting in the alcove of a bay window. It’s covered in plates and cutlery, just waiting for us to start dinner. Steve points to the seat closest to the window and offers me a drink. I ask for water and sit in my chair.

“We hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place,” Steve intones.

My head shakes as I accept my glass from his hand. I take a sip and answer, “Not at all, I actually live pretty close by, in this tiny matchstick apartment.”

A chuckle leaves my lips. Steve hums in happy surprise and Bucky smiles, suppressing a laugh, while stirring his pot on the stove. I don’t question Bucky’s reaction as he turns with bright anticipation in his eyes.

“It’s done,” he announces.

Things move quickly as Bucky plates up our dinner. Steve plays with his phone for a minute while he grabs a drink for himself and his husband. They sit down in chairs flanking mine and Bucky explains our meal.

On the plates sit little puffy clouds of gnocchi covered in a creamy gorgonzola sauce with spinach and pine nuts. A side salad with berries sits to the side of the plate. And he made dessert—because of course he did—but it’s in the fridge. My mouth waters at the food placed before me.

As we eat, Bucky and Steve talk about the renovations that they’ll be showing me throughout their townhouse. Bucky points out small details in the kitchen.

I ask about their anniversary—how long they’ve been together, what they’re planning to do. They tell me about meeting in childhood and being side by side ever since, but circumvent discussion of their plans.

“You planning on joining us, babygirl?” Bucky teases.

I snort into my glass as a heated blush spreads across my cheeks. Sputtering, I start to stand to get some more water. Steve pops up and refills my glass as a noise of objection trills in my throat. Steve shoots me a playfully reproachful look and I answer with a begrudging hum. Bucky chuckles at our exchange and keeps his eyes glued to his husband.

We chat, we catch up on small things and they share their life with me—their families, how they got their café. I share the same, revealing more about myself than I have before. We talk about interests and experiences, sharing stories that end in laughter—and I feel closer to them, like they’re more my friends now than they were before.

Finishing our meal, I gather up the dishes—despite their protests—and place them by the sink. Bucky stands and maneuvers to the refrigerator. He pulls out one plate and takes it to the table.

I rush over, excited to see the dessert Bucky has crafted for us to taste—and I am not disappointed. It looks delicious, a circle of golden brown pastry with cream in the middle, and I have a guess as to what it could be.

“Bucky,” I say, anticipation rocketing up my spine and flooding my mouth with saliva, “is that what I think it is?”

He smirks in response, a rakish glint in his eye. “If you think it’s a puits d’amour, then you’d be correct.”

An excited squeak shakes my chest as I bounce in my seat, ready to dive in and indulge in decadence.

“But, I’ve made a small adjustment to Prue’s recipe. Instead of raspberries and strawberries with vanilla pastry cream, I’ve substituted chocolate ganache and flavored the pastry cream with hazelnuts.” Bucky takes a spoon and cuts a little bite out.

He leans closer and offers the morsel out to me. My eyes look to Steve who nods, his pupils slightly dilated and dark. His fists clench on the table as he leans forward, a grin pulling at the corners of his lips.

I gulp down my nerves and look back to Bucky. He waits patiently for me—not moving, anticipating, eyes ignited with heat. My lips wrap around the spoon and I draw away, covering my lower face with a hand to disguise the cream oozing out of the side of my mouth. I relish the taste of the pastry as I eat it, but hold back my moan of pleasure—too self-conscious with the way they both stare at me. My tongue peeks out to swipe away the stray cream and I hum with enjoyment.

“That’s delicious, Bucky,” I comment while looking for my own spoon.

The only other spoon on the table rests in Steve’s hand, outstretched with another bite of the confection. I take it into my mouth as trepidation drains through my veins. My hand covers my mouth once more as I sit back in my seat, trying to create space between myself and the table—myself and them.

The new, heated atmosphere burning in the room sets me on edge—unexpected and jarring. I clear my throat and take a sip of water, floundering to find a reason for the shift in their mood—and why it would involve _me_ in the direct line of impassioned gazes.

“I think I’m pretty stuffed full,” I chuckle apprehensively. “Might be too much if I try to eat any more.” My hand rubs the back of my neck as I avoid their stares, sweat pooling under my arms.

As anxiety builds, bubbling in my gut, I make a show of checking the time on my phone—breath hitching when I realize _hours_ have passed. My eyes raise to make my excuses to leave. But Steve catches on quickly.

“Now, don’t try leaving before we give you a tour of the house.” Steve stands and grabs the dessert, putting it back in the fridge. “That’s the whole reason you’re here.” He smirks as he turns, pulling out his phone and absently clicking on the screen.

“We can start from the top and make our way down,” Bucky suggests as he scrutinizes my face, my reaction.

I nod mutely and wipe my hands on my napkin, wicking away the moisture gathering on my palms. My hands fold in front of me, fingers tense and kneading together.

Bucky chuckles and snakes his way into holding my hand. My grip is limp in his firm hold and I tuck my head down as we ascend the stairs, heart thumping in my chest.

They lead me up a set of back stairs to the top floor. Explaining each new addition or change to the house around us, they show me the rooms—a library, gym, a couple bedrooms.

When I hear a strange thump from the lower levels and tense, they easily assuage me with an explanation about their neighbor getting ready to move.

“At this time of night?” I ask.

“I’m sure they’re just getting everything ready for an early start tomorrow,” Steve replies with a shrug. I warily accept the explanation and we continue on the tour.

At first, my hums of approval and interest are forced from my lips, nerves still sparking after the strange turn our dinner had taken. But as we keep walking, moving from the third floor to the second and down to the first, the bizarre atmosphere from dinner eases and my pounding heart calms. I feel comfortable once more in their presence as their attention focuses on impressing me with their home—and less on looking like they want to devour me.

Bucky acts as the perfect tour guide and Steve follows behind while checking his phone, the device pinging with updates.

“What’s so important?” I inquire, trying to sneak a peek of the screen. A cheeky grin crosses my face as Steve quickly pulls his phone away.

“Daisy needs to take some time off, so I have to rearrange the schedule a bit, that’s all,” Steve replies. He avoids my gaze, his shoulders tense and nerves clearly lining his face. His phone pings an alert once more and he tucks it into his pocket. He nods toward Bucky, “Come on, let’s keep going.”

We descend the stairs toward the front of the house as I contemplate the fact that Steve—one of my best friends— _lied_ to me. They lead me down the hallway, back toward the kitchen while pointing out minor changes they made to the main floor. I don’t pay much attention to them, still focused on Steve’s attempt at deception.

“Just one more level.” Steve smiles as he opens a door leading toward the basement. “This one’s our favorite.”

“Did you guys build a man cave in your basement?” I ask, trying to picture what that would be for my friends while forcing myself to ignore my clashing thoughts about Steve’s lie.

“Not exactly,” Bucky hemmed. “But it did take the longest time to fix up.”

My brow furrows as I look down the dark stairs. Bucky reaches over my shoulder, flicking on a light and brightening the stairwell so we can actually see. Steve’s hand rests on my lower back and ushers me down the stairs. Both of them walk down behind me, smiles lighting up their features, excitement bright in their eyes.

“So what is it?” I ask as my feet find the landing at the bottom of the steps.

They don’t answer me. My teeth worry over my bottom lip as anticipation builds. Bucky catches my gaze, eyes filled with reassurance and comfort. Steve steers me to stand aside from the door as he grabs the handle, palm pressed to the metal and a small beep echoes in the small space as we wait.

“What was _that_?” I ask, jumping at the sound.

“Biometric security,” Bucky explains. “It’s on the front and back doors, too.”

My head tilts in confusion. Why would they need it on their basement door, though? Scrambling for some reasonable explanation for it, I open my mouth to ask, but get cut off by the door opening. An almost pressurized hiss sounds from the door as Steve cracks it open.

“Tony outfitted it with biometric security, but also replaced the door with reinforced steel and soundproofed the whole level from floor to ceiling,” Steve explains with zeal, tapping his hand on the door with a muted thump-thump.

With each word, I become more and more baffled. Steve opens the door all the way and pushes me forward toward the room. Doubt and hesitation overtakes my mind as I turn to the men behind me.

“Go ahead, babygirl,” Bucky says, gesturing to the room. Eagerness tenses his muscles as a minute ticks by. “We saved the best for last.”

There’s a wild look in Steve’s eye as he crosses his arms, waiting. He jerks his head in a gesture for me to enter and I bite the inside of my cheek—perplexed both by this place they want to show me and their peculiar enthusiasm about it.

The pressure of his expectation becomes too much and I pivot on my heels, closing my eyes and drawing in courage with each breath. Peeking one eye open, my face scrunches, puzzled. The basement has been transformed into some sort of bedroom?

A bed stands in the center with a lacy canopy hanging above it. Stuffed animals form a pile in the center—one looking particularly familiar. But my eyes bounce away, focusing on everything else as a shiver runs down my spine.

The floor is covered in a shaggy, fluffy rug. There’s a white table and chairs in one corner—which looks exactly like the set I have in my apartment, down to the gouge in the middle of the table—and a kitchenette next to it. My teeth clench tight as panic rolls my stomach.

Sparkle lights drape on the smooth walls—which I avoid acknowledging the color of. A tall wardrobe sits in one corner next to an antique vanity, piled with miscellaneous tinctures and bottle. There are a few closed doors around the perimeter of the room—one is most likely a bathroom, but the others...

“What do you think?” Bucky asks, pressing behind me. His arms wrap around my waist and squeeze—and it feels like every breath I have ever taken whooshes out of me. “We painted the walls your favorite color.”

If I had any moisture in my mouth, I would have nervously gulped it down. As I stand, though, my mouth is beyond Sahara Desert dry as my blood starts pumping in my veins and thundering in my ears.

“Bucky asked you a question, sweetheart,” Steve intones, smooth and soothing, but nothing short of a sedative would get me to calm down at this point. “You need to answer him.”

My tongue peeks out of my mouth to wet my lips. I swallow my fear, a scream burning in my throat. Dread leaks down my spine as things click into place. My feet take a step back, pressing closer to Bucky, and I tense.

“It’s so lovely,” I whisper, my words caught around my terror. A shaky smile flickers on my face. I shift in Bucky’s arms trying to make him release me, but he holds strong. “How—how did—” I can’t even finish my question, but Bucky answers anyway.

“We have connections.” His shoulders shrug behind me and one of his hands starts petting my stomach—the soothing gesture making my pulse spike with panic. “Though it was tricky getting some things down here—had to have good maneuvering skills, the timeline was rather...” He cuts off with a chuckle and turns to his husband who refuses to enter my line of sight. “Steve?”

“It was tight,” Steve supplies. “We had to make sure we could acquire everything and get it down here before a strict cutoff—no margin for error with the personal touches.” Steve steps closer, standing beside his husband and I, finally in my periphery—strange how that doesn’t calm me at all. His smile rings clearly in his voice as he says, “And now we have it all.”

Bucky rocks us side to side on our feet in a bastardized dance. Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down—reading between the lines as they speak, yet struggling to comprehend the reality in front of me.

My skin itches with the need to get out of Bucky’s hold—to get away from this room, away from them. But his clutch is strong, tight, and unrelenting. The longer we stand still in silence, the harder it becomes to breathe.

Body swaying dangerously, even without Bucky’s movement, my head feels full of dizzying air as I whisper, “It’s getting late, I should be going home, now.”

Every atom of my being prays that this is all a misunderstanding—my imagination acting up from reading one too many of Sam’s horror stories.

Bucky’s hold tightens as he takes a step forward, shuffling me closer to the center of the room against the resistance of my heels digging into the carpet. Steve shuts the door behind us and, in the quiet, I hear a mechanical whir and click. My eyes dart to him and see his easy smile, bright and warm. It burns to look at.

Steve’s hands cup my face, one burying into my hair and the other cradling my jaw. His eyes shift to his husband and back to me, hunger igniting in his eyes. He steps closer, tilting my head and brushing his lips against mine. My eyes widen and I involuntarily jerk back, away from him. His finger dig into my skull, keeping me in place as his lips play with mine.

Bucky nuzzles his head into the juncture where my neck meets my shoulder, nipping lightly and sucking kisses meant to mark. A chuckle vibrates through his chest against my back. His hands caress the planes of my body as he sighs with pleasure.

“Sugar, you _are_ home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Trying to make a dark story while also building up the creepiness slowly was kind of a challenge. I hope I pulled it off. Let me know what you think! I love hearing feedback!


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